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is hardly a station in life-hardly any mechanical art, howsoever humble-in which drawing may not occasionally be found serviceable. In the making of patterns for all sorts of fancy-work, in the designing of draperies for the decoration of an apartment, and in various other

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household affairs, it is extremely useful; and, while in the country, or when travelling abroad, to be able to sketch a remarkable building, a rare bird or other animal, or a beautiful landscape, is an elegant and highly intellectual attainment, that, for its intrinsic value, can hardly be appreciated too highly. It is soon enough, however, for us to think about these things, and at any rate, they are not to come in till you have made a proficiency in what is yet more useful and necessary.

But I see you have now finished what I set you about, so you shall take a walk with me into the market-place, where there are two or three things I wish to purchase.

K. Shall we not call at the bookseller's, to inquire for those new books that Miss Reader was talking about?

M. Perhaps we may. Now lay up your work neatly, and get on your hat and tippet.

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O tidings of comfort and joy,
For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was
born on Christmas-day.

In Bethlehem, in Jewry,

This blessed babe was born,

And laid within a manger,

Upon this blessed morn; The which his mother Mary Nothing did take in scorn.

O tidings, &c.

From God, our Heavenly Father,
A blessed angel came,
And unto certain shepherds
Brought tidings of the same,
How that in Bethlehem was born
The Son of God by name.

O tidings, &c.

Fear not, then said the angel,
Let nothing you affright,
This day is born a Saviour,

Of virtue, power, and might,
So frequently to vanquish all
The friends of Satan quite.
O tidings, &c.

The shepherds at those tidings
Rejoiced much in mind,
And left their flocks a-feeding
In tempest, storm, and wind,
And went to Bethlehem straightway
This blessed babe to find.

O tidings, &c.

But when to Bethlehem they came,

Whereas this infant lay,
They found him in a manger
Where oxen feed on hay;
His mother Mary kneeling
Unto the Lord did pray.
O tidings, &c.

Now to the Lord sing praises,
All you within this place,

And with true love and brotherhood

Each other now embrace;

This holy tide of Christmas

All others doth deface.

O tidings, &c.

HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF

CHAMOUNY.

COLERIDGE.

Died July 25th, 1834, alike great as a poet, an essayist, and a philosopher.

HAST thou a charm to stay the Morning-star

In his steep course? So long he seems to pause
On thy bald, awful head, oh sovran Blanc !
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form!
Risest from forth the silent Sea of Pines,
How silently! Around thee and above
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,
As with a wedge! But when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity!

Oh dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,

Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer,
I worshipped the invisible alone.

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,

So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought,
Yea, with my life, and life's own secret joy:
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused
Into the mighty vision passing-then,

As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven!
Awake, my soul! not only passive praise
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake,
Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn!

Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale!
Oh struggling with the darkness all the night,
And visited all night by troops of stars,
Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink:
Companion of the Morning-star at dawn.
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn
Co-herald: wake, oh wake, and utter praise!
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth?

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!
Who called you forth from night and utter death,
From dark and icy caverns called you forth,
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,
For ever shattered, and the same for ever?
Who gave you your invulnerable life,

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ?

And who commanded (and the silence came),
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?

Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow
Adown enormous ravines slope amain-
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty Voice,
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!
Motionless torrents! Silent cataracts!

Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven
Beneath the keen, full moon? Who bade the sun
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?
God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!

God! sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice!
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!
And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow,
And in their perilous fall, shall thunder, God!

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest!
Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain storm!
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds;
Ye signs and wonders of the element !

Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!

Thou too, hoar mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene
Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast-
Thou, too, again, stupendous mountain! thou
That, as I raise my head, awhile bowed low
In adoration, upward from thy base

Slow travelling, with dim eyes suffused with tears,
Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud,

To rise before me.-Rise, oh ever rise,

Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth!

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